The infantrymen were still leaving the camp beside the Slaerd River, a long line of ants following the mounted knights and lords, who were well out of sight, obscured by the green curtain of the woods. Without much more to see, Sianna finally relented.
“I suppose we’d better go find Master Aered after all. At least lessons will be shorter today. Then I’ll go pester Sir Colm for some training in the afternoon. What do you think of that, Iris?”
Her friend groaned but followed along as they descended the tower.
“You should join Sir Colm and me to train. We can find you something ladylike, such as a stiletto. What else will you do with Hammond gone off to war?” Hammond was a wealthy young courtier and Iris’s current beau.
“For one thing, that snagged sleeve on your dress won’t mend itself, Princess,” Iris said primly, the use of her title indicating her irritation. “Someone shall have to keep altering your dresses to fit that soon-to-be manly figure of yours if you keep that nonsense up.”
“Oh, hush, Iris.” Sianna put an arm around her waist. “It wouldn’t hurt to know how to at least defend yourself, were something dreadful to happen someday.”
Iris should’ve been born the princess—she’s much more ladylike than I’ll ever be. Instead, her friend was the third daughter of a minor noble house. Serving Sianna as her handmaiden was a great honor to her family.
Iris snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “I think I’d sooner die of fright if for some reason all the castle men were somehow dead or incapacitated, than get all sweaty and bloody myself.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought.
Sianna grinned, but her merriment faded at the memory of the premonition she’d had earlier. She felt a sudden chill despite the warm summer day.
“Perhaps we should say our morning prayers first, then find Master Aered,” she suggested.
Chapter 19
Mira stood atop a giant boulder, perched on the sharp apex of a mountain formed like a perfect pyramid. The boulder tilted alarmingly with any minute shift in position, so she was forced to stand at the precise center in order for it to remain stationary.
A dream, she realized. She sensed that below to one side lay a kingdom ruled by order and good. To the other side was another, ruled by chaos and evil. Each side sought to dislodge the boulder and send it crashing down to render destruction upon the other. My duty is to preserve the Balance. To fail means the boulder falls and I plummet with it.
The thought of sacrificing herself was undaunting. The prospect of failing the Balance, however, was. She sat down cross-legged on the rough surface of the boulder. It shifted imperceptibly but maintained its precarious position upon the peak. She slipped into a simple mantra allowing her to focus and calm herself, keeping perfectly still so that the boulder wouldn’t shift. Soon, she reached a plateau in her meditation, one where a great calm settled over her, and her spirit expanded until it was soaring past the confines of her body, encompassing all around her. The valley and the kingdoms below were gone, and she witnessed what was, elsewhere.
She saw an old man, Master Dagun, too weak to walk under his own power, being assisted into the catacombs. Brother Cerador and another monk supported him. The remaining monks all stood lined up as the three walked past them, each saying a blessing or kind word. The time was one of joy, not sadness.
Brother Cerador and the other monk helped Master Dagun into a tiny alcove, barely large enough for him to fit inside. He settled down into a lotus position, his knees brushing either wall. He briefly spoke to Cerador and the other monk, who both bowed in return although Mira couldn’t hear their words. A pair of initiates were summoned forward, and they began to brick over the alcove with Master Dagun inside. Mira sensed time accelerate, and the alcove was sealed up. Inside, Master Dagun’s heart no longer beat within his breast. His flesh had become a brass-colored effigy, preserved as he had been. His spirit had Ascended to a higher plane on his journey.
See now, child, that which has already been.
The words were as faint as a wisp of smoke curling from a doused candle, yet Mira sensed them. She felt her mind guided gently, then a face filled her vision. A young man with dark shoulder-length hair and striking rust-colored eyes sat beneath an old oak tree near a small farmhouse, a book in his lap. Instinctively, she knew he was the one she sought, Neratiri’s son. He looked up as another man approached, this one perhaps a couple years older and brawny of build. She could sense their closeness by the familiar way they spoke, brothers or friends, she assumed. The first young man’s form shimmered and glowed, casting off a golden radiance that made Mira squint.
Mira’s senses pulled back, and the men fell away, and she was soaring up over the land as a bird. The golden glow remained, at first a small pinpoint on the land, but then she saw a single tendril, glowing like a shaft of sunlight streaming outward until it merged with others, followed by more rays all expanding into an enormous skein, each of the beams of light intersecting and interlacing with all others across the land, small wefts forming one immense whole.
The Weave! Excitement rushed through her at its awesome beauty. Soon, the entire world below her was canvassed by an intricate webbing of intersecting lives and fates.
Now you see, Miralei, came the faint voice, that of he who had once been Master Dagun but was now Ascended to another life. Follow the Weave, my child, and save him.
***
Mira jolted awake in the night. For a moment, all she could see were a startling pair of golden eyes shining in the darkness, staring at her, unblinking.
After a moment, she regained her bearings. Whisper sat on a bough at the edge of the small clearing, gazing down at her. Kennitt regarded her over the dying embers of the campfire.
“You’d barely fallen asleep. I’ll wake you for your watch in a few hours,” the old ranger said.
“I saw it! I saw the Weave,” Mira said excitedly, forgetting all about trying to sleep. “It was in a dream… Master Dagun showed me the boy we seek.”
“Weave? Master Dagun?” Kennitt looked confused. “’Twas a dream, as you said, nothing more.”
“It was more than a dream,” she insisted. “He’s young, a score of years, perhaps a bit younger. Dark hair, eyes the color of rust. Academic, likes to read. And he travels with another, a brother or friend, I’m not sure about that. Big and strong, a couple years older.”
Kennitt regarded her with raised eyebrows. “Well, it’s more than we had to go on when we left, I reckon. Did your Weave show you a signpost or anything so we know where to look?”
Mira shook her head. “No. Alas, I just saw him sitting beneath a tree near a small farmhouse.” She thought hard on the vision, particularly her view as a bird soaring overhead: a glimpse of farmlands and forest, and in the distance… “Mountains to the north and west, perhaps a week’s travel. Could have been the Arkada Mountains. And the farmlands had woods nearby. I don’t know much other than that.”
“The Arkadas to the north and west, farmland and forest a week’s travel from there. Hmm.” Kennitt thought a long time before nodding slowly. “Well done, Mira. I have an idea where to focus our search. A town called Swanford. There are surrounding farms in the vales throughout the area. We should reach it in three or four days.” The ranger gave her a rare smile then stared into the embers for a long time.
Mira tried to fall back asleep, but she tossed and turned, excited by her revelation. Hopefully, this means I’ll be able to see the Weave for myself now.
She had just managed to drift into a half sleep when Kennitt roused her to take watch.
***
On the fourth day after Mira’s dream of the Weave, they began coming across abandoned settlements. At some, the residents had clearly left in a hurry—dishes were still on the tables, as was half-prepared food. Cows lowed in the fields, needing to be milked. At others in which the residents had fled, their homes had been torched.
The worst were the farmsteads where the residents had been fallen upon, unsuspe
cting. They had been attacked, murdered, their bodies left to rot in the yard or in their beds, their homes torched.
A dull anger pulsed inside Mira at the signs of the Balance being upset. Innocents had been murdered for no reason that she could determine.
“Same as the others,” Kennitt said after studying tracks around the latest burned farmhouse. “Soldiers came upon them from the south—questioned or cut them down, torched the house, and moved on.” He spat on the ground.
Mira walked a short distance away from the blackened remnants, finding a nice spot in the grass, and sat down in the lotus position to meditate. Twice since her dream, she’d been able to see the Weave, leading them south and slightly east from the Arkada Mountains, in the general direction of Swanford as Kennitt had guessed, although they were still a bit west of the town. “I shall try to observe the Weave again,” she said.
Kennitt nodded. He’d become accustomed to her frequent stops to meditate. “I’ll search around for any food left behind.”
Mira chanted a mantra silently, stilling her mind and soothing her unsettled emotions. She tried to picture the Weave, that intricate golden web overlaying everything. Try as she might, it wouldn’t appear to her. After some time, she gave up in frustration.
“I found some eggs in the henhouse and some onions in the garden.” Kennitt regarded her from a short distance away.
“You had better luck than I,” she said. “At least we shall have food for our bellies later. Let us continue.”
Later that afternoon, they came across a refugee family heading east along a narrow road, little more than a dirt track.
“Where are you heading?” Kennitt asked them.
“Swanford. There’s Nebaran troops swarming the southlands like maggots on a corpse. It ain’t safe ’round here no more,” one farmer said. He had a donkey hitched to a cart. In the back were his wife and three children, along with whatever food and belongings they’d had time to gather up before leaving.
“There many more farms south of here?” Kennitt asked.
“Aye, a handful more before the forest. Don’t know any more past that. Many miles south is Leestead on the sea. Likely burned to the ground and Nebaran ships filling the harbor.” The farmer glanced southward nervously as if he could see the masts from where he sat.
“Good luck to you, friend,” Kennitt said.
Seeing that Kennitt and Mira were still heading south, the farmer asked, “Why you headin’ that way, if you don’t mind me askin’?”
“Looking for a couple lads of about a score of years. One of them is slender with dark hair and rust-colored eyes. Educated lad, tends to do a lot of reading. The other one is big and strong.”
The farmer scratched his head. “Sounds like it could be Wyat’s boys you’re thinkin’ of. I’d check with Elon—he’s the next farm south if you keep headin’ that direction. His boys are friends with them, I reckon. Can’t miss it. They were just packing when we went past.”
Kennitt thanked them, and they continued on. Mira dared feel hopeful for the first time since her dream.
They reached Elon’s farm after another half hour. Two stocky boys were loading up a cart with a mule hitched to it, under the supervision of an older man. A woman sat on the drover’s seat.
Mira studied the boys a moment but quickly decided they weren’t the right ones. The age was right, but neither had the right build or eye color, nor did they look particularly learned.
“You’re going the wrong way, friends,” the farmer, Elon, said by way of greeting. “Naught but trouble down south.”
“So we’ve heard,” Kennitt replied. He then asked of the young man they sought.
“That sounds like Taren, Elyas’s little cousin,” one of the boys spoke up.
The father glared at him for interrupting, but the lad paid no attention.
“You know them?” the ranger asked.
“Aye, sir. Elyas is my friend. So’s Taren, I guess.” He shrugged and looked at his brother, who nodded. “Thing is, old man Dendo saw some soldiers coming off their land—dressed in black and gold. Sounds like those Nebaran bastards that’s makin’ trouble to the south. Hope they got away.” After a moment, he flushed uncomfortably at Mira’s intent look. “We was plannin’ on going to see if they were all right, of course, but Da wanted us to pack up and all first.”
“What are you looking for them for?” the second youth asked.
“They’re in danger,” Kennitt replied.
“Everyone’s in danger, times being what they are and all,” Elon said. “Been hearing talk of those imperial dogs showing up and burning farms and such to the southwest. The neighbors have left, and I’m no fool to stay behind and keep my family in danger.”
“Aye, that’s probably wise,” Kennitt agreed. “Not much better to the west—we’ve passed a few torched farms on the road here. Folks killed in their own home. ’Twould seem these bastards are forming a horseshoe around Swanford, flushing everyone in that direction like game. You’d best make haste.”
They wished the family well after getting directions. Although Mira was sure the young men, Taren and Elyas if Elon’s son had identified them correctly, had already departed, she wanted to see the farm where he had grown up and get a feel for what he was like. Perhaps that small amount of knowledge would help enhance her focus on the Weave.
After crossing some fields and passing through a neck of forest, Mira and Kennitt arrived at the small farmstead where the young man she sought had lived. She knew it right away by the old oak tree although the farmhouse had been put to the torch and was unrecognizable.
“Oh, no,” Mira whispered when she rounded the burned-out ruins and saw a corpse.
The body lay where it had fallen before the door of the farmhouse, bloated and putrefying from remaining in the sun for what must have been several days. The corpse was pierced with many wounds and had at least one quarrel protruding from it. Mira could imagine the man—large of stature and with a head of gray hair, judging from the remains—holding off the Nebarans and buying the boys time to escape. On the ground surrounding the dead man were dark stains from what must have been quite a fight, and the dirt was marked with bootprints and drag marks.
Her anger simmered at the thought that the man, apparently a father figure to Taren, had bravely sacrificed himself to save them and now lay there rotting in the sun like an animal carcass.
“Over here.” Kennitt stood at the edge of a mound of loose soil, what had likely been a mass grave dug for the attackers, whose corpses were missing. The ranger examined the dirt and tracks then the charred remains of the house and corpse. “Four or five days gone now. That’s quite a lead, especially since we’ve no exact idea where they were headed although seems they ran toward those woods. The Nebarans likely would’ve forced them back toward Swanford as they have the others.”
Mira was nearly overcome with sorrow, staring at the remains of the man. “We must provide him a proper burial,” she decided. “He died nobly, defending hearth and home. I owe it to him, for Taren’s sake.”
Kennitt looked as though he’d object but thought better of it. “I’ll look for a shovel,” he offered.
Bits of charred wood crunched underfoot as Mira walked carefully through the ruined farmhouse. There was little that had survived the fire. The walls and roof had caved in. She found smashed pottery, an old knife, blackened remains of furniture, and an ironbound chest, scorched and smashed and apparently looted. In the far corner, she nudged aside a burned pallet, somehow knowing Taren had slept there—feeling a closeness to the young man she’d never met. Beneath the pallet was the remains of a book.
THE BATT
OF NEX
The words on the cover ended at the blackened edge where the right side of the book had burned away. The binding and inner two-thirds were still intact. Mira gently thumbed through it, the pages stiff and crackling, but what remained was still legible. She noted it was a retelling of the Battle of Nexus and imagined Taren
must have read through it many a time.
This must have been precious to him.
Mira stepped outside again, wiped the soot off the book as best she could, and tucked it inside her pack. Kennitt had returned from the barn with a shovel.
“Looks like they slaughtered a pair of cows and all the chickens, but there’s an old horse in its stall. I say we set it free—will probably find its way to a neighboring farm, where someone else can care for it. Assuming anyone is still around, other than invaders.”
Mira nodded. “Let’s find a place to bury this man.”
After walking the property for a few minutes, they found a small cairn near the woods. A simple marker read Shenai, Loving Wife and Mother on it.
Mira took the shovel and dug a grave in the soft soil beside the cairn where Shenai had been buried. Kennitt found an old horse blanket in the barn, in which they bundled the remains and placed them in the ground. By the time they had buried the body and built a cairn of stones over the grave, the sun was low in the sky.
“I don’t know who you were, but I sense you were a good man, a father and protector. May you rest in peace and receive the blessing of whatever gods you worshipped.” Mira placed a sunflower on the grave.
Kennitt put a hand on her shoulder. “That was a nice touch, lass.”
She nodded, filled with sorrow for a man she had never even known. “We should stay the night, out under the stars here. In the morning, perhaps I will have a bearing to follow.”
The old ranger nodded. They set camp in the southern field, near a stream that flowed out of the woods. They recovered some squash and tomatoes from the garden, which Kennitt grilled up along with the eggs and onions. Once he added some spices from his pack, they had a tasty meal.
Mira offered to take second watch, as was customary. She lay down and fell asleep after a short time. Her dreams were filled of a simple life on a farm, tending to animals and crops—all in all, a peaceful, untroubled existence. She couldn’t remember much of it but wondered if she had gained a new closeness to Taren by experiencing his life to a small degree. When Kennitt woke her to take watch, she was hopeful she’d sense the Weave and be able to locate him.
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